Of Childhood Friends and Weird Murders
by Bookworm45669
Summary: Sherlock goes to the morgue, where Molly is waiting...talking to another man. A guy apparently committed suicide without a weapon...in a porta-potty. The oddities are never-ending. Not crack, or at least, it's not intended to be crack.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my attempt at writing Sherlock. Because, you know, my other one was about Molly, and she's probably easier to write than Sherlock, cuz he's impossible… Anyway, enjoy!**

Sherlock blew one of his many dark curls out of his face, concentrating. He'd need serious concentration if he was to get that one tiny layer of skin to get off of the scalp. With careful placement of the scalpel, he slowly inched it through the severed head. To ordinary people- the absolute morons that took up most of the population of Earth- he was skinning a head. To someone who knew a shred of anatomy, he was looking at something. To people who were actually competent- a breed of people slowly becoming extinct- he was experimenting. Probably something to do with the skull, if they knew him well enough. And he was. He was testing the layers of skin between the cranium and the scalp. He was almost there, just a little bit of precision, right there, yes, and-

"Sherlock?"

John's voice distracted him from completing it, but he'd still managed to pull the scalpel out of the head without ruining the experiment. Actually, he'd just completed it. Thank John for unintentionally helping him complete his experiment. In a fairly good mood, he replied, "Yes?" "There's been a murder." John stated. "About an eight." Sherlock, being his arrogant, cocky self, responded, "Well, what was it? Knowing your rating on murders, this is probably a five or six." John shook his head. "Actually, no. Locked doors, looked a hell of a lot like a suicide. The only differences were that he did it in a porta-potty, and there was no weapon."

Sherlock stayed silent for a bit, going over various possible solutions in his head. Deciding to get some concrete evidence, he nodded. "Your interpretation on murders is improving ever so slightly, John," he commented as he slipped on his coat and wound his scarf around his neck. "Yeah, thanks," John replied sarcastically.

Sherlock burst through the doors to the morgue, in his dramatic fashion that would make a stranger go wide-eyed but make someone who knew him roll their eyes.

As he was making his usual dramatic entrance, he noticed someone else in the morgue, talking to Molly. As usual, he went through the deduction process.

First evaluation: common sense. They look like they're familiar, and furthermore, they're conversing in a morgue. He may not know much about human nature, but he knew that they were generally disgusted with the insides of corpses. Therefore, it can't be a family member, because they're all a bunch of stuck-up morons who are too worried about their hair or whatever to bother worrying about 'Morbid Molly', the oddball girl who 'wears the most hideous clothing ever' and 'cannot apply makeup if her life depended on it'. They-

_Concentrate, Sherlock. The person._

Okay, so, not family. Close, though. Known since childhood, going with the easy closeness between them, the innocent playfulness.

Second evaluation: details. Male, early thirties, died dark hair, with a streak of- purple? Did people that age really do that? Several piercings, a tattoo of a skull- an anatomically correct skull, impressive- on arm, gold shirt with Weasley is our King logo, whatever that means. No hairs indicating a pet, bit of chocolate on shoulder- had a cookie recently- miniscule amount of tea on corner of lip. Had lunch recently- but no, not lunch, because no one eats only a cookie for lunch. Snack, then. But it's nine in the morning, who has a snack at nine in the morning? Someone who had a small breakfast. Why would he have a small breakfast? He can afford to have those expensive earrings in each one of his piercings. He can afford breakfast, so that's not the reason. He probably didn't have time to eat, as he slept late- he rushed to put that shirt on- got on a train, went to London. He's not a tourist, obviously, he's just talking to Molly. Not bad news- no indicator that he'd been crying or any sort of sadness. He got on a train to London, and worried about coming late. Has news- no one really goes on a train to see a childhood friend just to say hi. Happy news. Also has engagement ring on. Therefore- childhood friend goes to see Molly to invite her to the wedding. Has a lot of expensive earrings- one is a flower. Why would a man have a flower earring? Conclusion- borrowed it from sister, older sister. It's worn down, very worn down. Sentiment. Why would he keep a flower earring from his older sister and wear it all the time? Something made him want to keep her close. Maybe she committed suicide, maybe she died. Most likely committed suicide.

So, childhood friend, punk, dead sister, getting married, and has a tattoo of an anatomically correct skull. And that was all done by the time Molly noticed their presence. Good to know that he hadn't lost his touch.

"Oh, hi, Sherlock," Molly greeted, "This is Ian. Ian, this is Sherlock and John." John smiled and held out his hand. Ian shook it, and then offered his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. Ian frowned. Molly sighed and stated, "Sherlock, you might as well get the showing-off done now."

Sherlock smirked slightly, and replied, "Ian here has a tattoo of a skull- an anatomically correct skull, at that. Either Molly told him to get it done that way because she's a pathologist, or you yourself have enough knowledge of anatomy to get it done that way and that's why you're friends with her. You had an older sister, committed suicide. You woke up late, came here on the train to tell Molly that you were getting married. Congratulations. You dress like a delinquent teenager even though you're in your early thirties. You've known Molly since you were children, given the easy conversation and the fact that no living member of her family would ever step foot in a morgue. Did I get anything wrong?"

Ian's eyes widened. "How on earth- how did you know that? All that?" Sherlock replied, "I didn't know, I saw. Like I said, easy conversation. Knew each other a long time. Also like I said, all of Molly's living family are arrogant buffoons who apparently have a delusional belief that getting plastic surgery and putting on thirty layers of makeup will save their souls. Obviously, you're not disturbed with dead bodies quite as much as those blithering idiots, given the skull and the mere fact that you're in a morgue. Now, the sister. You have a flower earring, left ear. Worn down, old. If you had a little sister, she wouldn't give you her earrings, you'd give her yours. So, older sister. Now, if you had an older sister who gave you an earring of a flower, why would you wear it around? Something happened to her, something bad enough to make you wear it around everywhere, so as to keep a piece of her close. Apparently, people do that. They do, right?" He asked John. John sighed and nodded.

"Right. So," he continued, "most likely, she died. No one dies by accident these days, and it's highly unlikely that she was murdered. So, she probably killed herself. As for getting married, you have an engagement ring, and we've already stated that you're a friend from childhood, so, you hopped on a train to come to London to invite your good friend Molly to your wedding. You may or may not have asked her aloud already, if not, Molly wants to go. The fact that you dress like a delinquent is a glaringly obvious detail that only a true moron would miss. Did I get anything wrong?" Ian smiled. "No. Nothing. Nothing wrong whatsoever."

Sherlock smirked. "Good. So, did Molly get the skull done anatomically correct, or was that you?" Ian looked at said tattoo. "I got it done. Molly was there, but she didn't tell me to get it done like this. Just my pride in knowing things like this, interesting things. Molly wanted to be a pathologist. Mine was to be a forensic pathologist, like with the police, and that's exactly what happened. Only difference between dreams and reality is that Molly decided to go to London, and I decided to stay in Cardiff. And speaking of tattoos…"

Ian smiled mischievously at Molly. Molly groaned. "Do you really have to bring that up?" she complained.

Ian winked at her. "'Course I do. I'm your childhood best friend. It's my job to embarrass you in front of the friends you made while I was gone." "What is he talking about?" Sherlock inquired, obviously curious. Molly, knowing that she shouldn't even bother trying to dismiss that, replied, "I am not telling you. Ever."

"Molly…do you have a tattoo?!" John asked in disbelief. Ian smiled and responded, "Yup! It's of an anatomically correct heart! The tattoo stylist I went to had serious fucking skill." "Okay, then…" John replied.

**AN: Yeah, bad place for a chapter to end, I know. This is probably going to be a short fic, because I'm taking baby steps with this. Because, you know, I don't wanna suck. Okay, so, see that box? It says, 'Type your review here…' Obey it. Type your review. Do it, now. Don't bother reading the rest of this AN, just review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Well, this turned out better than expected. I got six reviews. SIX! I'm so proud of myself! I thought this would suck! Apparently not, though. Disclaimer: (forgot to do that last chapter...whoops) I do not own the original cast. I only own this style of deduction(which I'm quite proud of, by the way), Ian, and the tattoo.**

As soon as they got home, Sherlock plopped on the couch and delved into his Mind Palace.

Sherlock opened his eyes, only this time, he was in his mind. He walked down the stairs with an urgency that made it impossible for him to casually stroll down. As he got down the stairs, mind-Molly was waiting. As he saw his own deductions roll off of her, he added the heart tattoo and Ian.

He then assembled a mental Ian, just for reference. Mind-Ian was a blank slate, and then he added 'dead sister', 'Molly's childhood friend', 'tattoo', 'punk', and 'getting married'.

Sherlock then strolled to 'the Thinking Room', which was basically the living room of 221b.

Sherlock plopped on the couch, in the exact same position as he was in real life, and pondered for a bit.

"Yeah, he's in his Mind Palace, Mrs. Hudson..."

He was transported somewhere nearer to his actual conscience, as John said that sentence louder than necessary.

_Does he WANT to rip me out of my Mind Palace?! _

"...and he really NEEDS TO COME OUT!"

_Apparently, yes._

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock groaned irritably, without opening his eyes.

"Look around and tell me." John replied.

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes. The sight that greeted his eyes was very, very strange indeed.

The wallpaper was switched to black, with white spider designs all over it. The armchairs were both taken out, and replaced with two dark grey armchairs. The table was made with black wood, and had paws where the end of the legs should've been. The small library was switched from various encyclopedias, dictionaries, maps and classic paintings, to the entire collection of Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings(including the Hobbit), a painting of the TARDIS by Vincent Van Gogh, the Hunger Games trilogy, and a poster that read 'Undesirable No.1, Harry Potter'. Between the two lines of text, there was a picture of a boy with glasses and dark hair frowning. Beneath that read, 'Contact the Ministry of Magic immediately if you have any information concerning his whereabouts. Failing to report will result in imprisonment.' Beneath that read, 'Reward- 10,000 Galleons on his head'.

"What the hell?"

John nodded. "That about sums it up."

Ian strolled down the streets of London, taking in the sights and sounds. He saw why Molly loved this place so much. All the lights, the cars, all the time. Never sleeping.

He opened the door to his hotel, and then proceeded to go in the elevator.

As the elevator smoothly glided upwards, Ian pondered.

He saw the look of jealousy that flashed through Sherlock's eyes when he first saw him. It faded after his eyes grazed the ring.

There might not be any actual evidence, but Ian was pretty sure, anyways.

As he entered his hotel room and climbed into the bed there, he thought, _Well, if he's gonna like Molly, he'd better like her right._

With that, Ian fell asleep.

Sherlock dug around 221b, trying to find some piece of evidence that would show who did this, or why. John, unsure if he should help, sort of stood there and watched Sherlock. Eventually(as in, after three seconds), John threw his arms up, and searched the desk for anything. After a few minutes, John picked up a piece of paper.

"Sherlock?" John called. "What?" Sherlock replied irritably, not looking up. "I found something."

Sherlock looked up at John and rushed over to the desk. John handed Sherlock the slip of paper with a worried expression. Sherlock opened it up so quickly that he might have torn it if he weren't so careful.

The note read: _Hello, Sherly! How have you been? I've been gone a long time. I hope you didn't become boring while I was gone! But, now I'm back!  
__I've heard that our favorite little mouse helped you live. I must say, I didn't expect that.  
__Want to play a game?  
-Jim_

Sherlock's eyes widened. Of course. _Of course_. Jim Moriarty was the only criminal who really terrified him. Sherlock simply loathed Magnussen, and he was mildly impressed by Irene. He didn't particularly fear either of them. Which should be evident, in his mind at least, because he shot Magnussen in the head(he has no regrets whatsoever for that) and he saved Irene's life(no regrets over that _yet_).

But, simply put, James Moriarty scared the living shit out of him.

And now he was ready to attack, ready to kill.

So, Sherlock uttered the only word that could describe their situation.

"Fuck."

**AN: So, that was short. But I thought this would be a good place to end, considering everything. **

**Thanks to Rachel, GeorgyannWayson, SammyKatz, reszta546, CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, and leidibrf for reviewing! Thanks to obsessiveicequeen, theSepthis, SammyKatz, reszta546, and Cloudy Glass for following! Thanks to everyone who read this! **

**The rainbow bunny wants you to click that box underneath this AN. Not the tiny little rectangle that says . No. The large box. CLICK IT. Criticize this story. Make a joke or two. Compliment the story. Make the author smile. DO IT NOW.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry if that last chapter was not very good. I tend to overlook things when I get excited. So, this time, I'm going to suppress the excitement.**

** I also apologize for any grammar errors I have made. That irritates me a lot when reading. **

**And I also apologize(yeah, lots n lots of apologies in this AN) for the long wait. Part of the problem was that I was in a hotel on a vacation when I updated the last chapter, and they had really crappy internet. **

**So, here we go, then!**

_Hey, Melody._

_hey, ian._

_hows inviting molly going? _

_Fine. She has weird friends now, but that should be expected. She does work in a morgue, after all. _

_what? you never told me she worked in a morgue! _

_I didn't? _

_no! _

_Whoops. Well, now you know. _

_ian, you should have told me. _

_Why? It's just a job. Just cuz she likes anatomy doesn't mean anything, right? _

_it doesn't matter to ME. what about my mother? she hates anyone different! _

_Yeah, well, she can go fuck herself. I'm allowed to have my friends. _

_first off, watch what you text. this is my mother we're talking about. _

_You hate her too. _

_not completely! _

_She's not even your mother, technically._

_ so what? she raised me!_

_ Are we really arguing about your mother? _

_yeah. ok. i see. _

_we'll stop arguing. if she doesn't like your childhood best friend, too bad for her._

_ Besides, she's already agreed to pay for the wedding. She can't back out now. _

_XD _

_Glad to know you still like my jokes ;)_

Ian smiled. Melody always lost these arguments. Especially if he was obviously right.

Melody always knew how to make him smile. She was his- his-

And, what's more, she knew what he meant when he didn't have any words. The only other person to know that stuff was Molly.

Ian frowned. _Molly knows things that Melody will never know._

Why? Because he didn't want Melody to know. And there is a very, very good reason for that.

Why did Molly know? She was there. She helped him through it.

But, of course, he'd never get over it. Never. Because that-that is something you can't ever not see.

_He was running. They were going to kill him. They were going to destroy him. Destroy. De-stroy. De-stroy. The word repeated in his head in time with his breathing. _

_They were shooting now. It was loud. It hurt his ears. _

_Hurt._

_He did it. He knew he did it. He didn't need to be accused to make him realize that._

_His fault. All his fault..._

_Molly. She'll be disappointed when ____he tells her. Ashamed. _

_And he will tell Molly. If he keeps it in, he'll go nuts._

_Molly didn't deserve him. No, she didn't. She deserved someone better._

_Not him._

He remembered. Remembered. Definitely. He would never, ever forget. But, he shouldn't pity himself. He wasn't the one who deserved pity.

No. He didn't.

And he wouldn't want it, anyway.

Molly sighed with relief when she got home. Sherlock hadn't deduced everything about her friend. He didn't suspect him. That was good, very good.

For now, though, all she could do was not think about it around Sherlock. Then, she would probably show him something through her nervousness.

She smiled. She remembered when she was closest to Ian.

_They lay on a hill that overlooked a street. Molly had been beaten up, again. She cried a bit._

_Ian was the only reason she wasn't dead yet._

_She wanted to lay here forever. She wanted to stop thinking so much, and just lay here._

_Ian lay next to her. He wanted to stop thinking as well._

_She remembered the voices that told her that she was ugly, pathetic. _

_She closed her eyes. She decided to think of the things they didn't tell her._

But,_ she thought, _they have never once called me stupid. If they did, it would be hypocritical, wouldn't it? _  
_

_She didn't want to do anything. She decided to just not think._

_She thought of herself, on a street. She was fast. She saw a car. She chased it. Because she knew that one day she would be too old to sit on a hill and chase a car in her mind._

_She wanted to chase that car, next to Ian, before she outgrew it. Quickly._

She smiled to herself. She wished she could get in a time machine, go back, and tell herself that she would _never_ be too old to chase that car.

Sherlock paced the room angrily. Why did Moriarty do this? _Why?_ He stormed to the window and picked up his violin. As he started to play, he glanced and his sheet music. There was another note there.

Sherlock grabbed it quickly.

_Hello, Sherly! I see you've found my other note. Frustrated, are we?  
Do you remember Teresa?  
-Jim_

Sherlock's eyes widened. So, Mycroft had told him about that. Idiot Mycroft, Moriarty didn't need to know.

Sherlock had lied, that day in Kitty's flat. Moriarty didn't have his _entire_ life story. He had much of it, yes, but there were things missing.

Sherlock wasn't enough of an idiot to tell Moriarty that he missed something. Yes, the expression on his face would have been immensely satisfying, but he would've known that Mycroft tricked him.

But, of course, Mycroft _had _told him about the incident.

There was always the chance that Moriarty had known before The Fall. That may have been why Moriarty chose to say 'burn the heart out of you'.

And Sherlock was, frankly, very terrified of this fact. But, of course, there was no way in hell that anyone would know this.

Now, all Sherlock had to do was decide whether to tell John.

**Okay, so, there's chapter three. Ta-da!**

**I have their backstories in mind. And they will not be very happy backstories.**

**In case anyone is confused, at the beginning part, Ian is the one with capitalization, and Melody is the one without. And, yes, Melody is the girl that Ian's gonna marry. **

**By the way, I thought of something.**

**In the Reichenbach Fall, Moriarty printed Sherlock's entire life story, just with 'he's a fraud' mixed in.**

**What if Kitty worked for Magnussen, and that's why he knows about Redbeard and Irene and all the rest of Sherlock's pressure points? This is a reality in the fic(because there is every chance that it's true).**

**So, thanks to happychild83 and MarBre582 for following! Thanks to Dark Jacky for favoriting! Thanks to Guest, Natural Shadow King, and SammyKatz for reviewing!**

**So. I'm supposed to think of a creative way to convince you wonderful readers to review. Hm. Can't think of anything. But, please review anyways! Please?**


	4. Chapter 4

**So, Chapter Four. I've been waiting for this.**

**By the way, if you're reading this, please leave a review. It makes my day, and helps me as an author.**

**So, without further ado, here's a chapter!**

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Sherlock spent a good hour composing and playing the violin. John had gone off to do- something or another. He couldn't remember, and he didn't need to remember, so he didn't dwell on it.

Sherlock thought about the two notes, and the flat. His brain, however, wasn't about to let him concentrate on it, so he ended up having a flashback.

_He was playing the violin, thinking. Janine was there, too, listening. He was playing Ode to Joy, a simple piece, because he had other things to think about. _

_"That was pretty, Sherl." _

Sherl. _He detested that pet name, but he reminded himself to stay in character. _

_"Thank you." He replied, wishing desperately to not thank her but to point out her faults, including(but not limited to) her fake nose and breasts and her alcohol addictions(only an idiot wouldn't notice the way she occasionally stumbled into the flat, slightly tipsy). _

_But, of course, he had to stay in character, so he could do none of those things._

_ He put the violin down and watched as Janine got up and walked over to him._

_And then, she kissed him. _

_His eyes widened, but then he closed them, because he had to stay in character. _

_His character was somewhat shy and a bit ridiculous. So, he was able to simply wait for her as she bit his lower lip and pulled away. _

_His character would be in a state of slight shock and breathlessness, so he said, "Uh-uh."_

_ Janine smiled, and asked, "So, was that good?" _

_He replied, "y-yes, that was, um, nice."__Even though, it really wasn't. But he had to stay in character._

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Ian sighed. He knew that he shouldn't be dwelling on his past. He definitely knew that he shouldn't be pitied for it. After all, it was all his fault.

All. His. Fault.

Shaking his head, he headed over to the bathroom and splashed water over his face.

He needed to do something, something productive, something to distract him. Anything.

So, he thought of Sherlock more.

He had talked to Molly on occasion, before coming to invite her to his wedding. She had told him about Sherlock, describing his eyes and cheekbones, his arrogance, and his ridiculous intelligence. She had admitted to having a crush on him, and called it impossible. She had said that he was probably the most interesting person on the planet, and he would make any therapist cry.

He had told her to stand up for herself, to reply with the fire he knew she had.

She had smiled(he couldn't see it, as they were talking on the phone, but he knew her well enough to know) sadly, and told him that it was a lot harder to stand up to Sherlock Holmes than he had assumed.

She had turned out to be right, of course. The man seemed to stare right into your soul, and he knew your entire life story based off of little things. Things that people saw, but didn't think anything of.

But he did. He saw those things and knew exactly what they meant.

And that is the most uncomfortable thing in the world.

Switching subjects, why was he still here? He had invited Molly, so why was he still here?

He pondered that question for a while.

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Greg was irritated. Sherlock still hadn't shown up at the crime scene, and it was a good murder, too. No weapon, no way to enter.

He didn't know for sure if the man had actually committed suicide, but the best way to find out was through Sherlock.

And he didn't show up.

Sally, of course, kept saying, "Greg, you need to do this on your own. He's just gonna let you down. And you're _wasting our time."_

Greg knew she was right. But that didn't mean that he was ready to give up on Sherlock quite yet.

Greg picked up his phone and called Sherlock. Again.

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Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a phone ringing.

As he looked around the room, he realized that it was _his_ phone.

So, irritated, he stomped over to his phone, which happened to be lying on the cluttered desk.

He answered, "Sherlock Holmes."

_"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don't get your arse over here in five minutes, I will tear your bloody head off! We have five minutes to wrap up the case, so GET OVER HERE!"_ Greg shouted over the phone.

Oh! The case! The...porta-potty case, wasn't it?

"Something came up. I'm coming." Sherlock replied, forgetting his irritation.

He hung up and called, "JOHN! We have a case!"

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Molly was bored. And that was never good. Because that meant that she would have flashbacks.

_Molly opened the door, seeing Ian with tears streaming down his face. She could tell that he was scared, and traumatized. And, at the moment, very, very vulnerable._

_He collapsed into her arms, sobbing._

_"Don't worry, Ian, don't worry." She soothed, trying to calm him down._

_"I did something...horrible. I-I'm horrible. I-I..." sobbed Ian._

_Molly put her finger to his lips and sat him down on her couch, rubbing his shoulder._

_"Don't leave me alone. Please, don't hate me..."_

_Molly smiled sadly. "Oh, Ian, I could never hate you. Never. Tell me what's wrong."_

_And, as he confessed, Molly could only think of all the good things he did, and she refused to think of him as a monster. She thought of all the times that they sat on their hillside, chasing cars in their heads._

_And she still thought of him as her best friend, despite the confessions of horrible things flowing from his mouth._

_So, she hugged him._

_She had thought,_ at least it wasn't entirely his fault.

**So, that was short. But I can't think of anything else to add.**

**I know, I know, you thought you'd get the backstory. But, unfortunately, I'm feeling moderately evil. So, no, I just teased it.**

**Thanks to AvacynHope, Renaissancebooklover108, and MouseyJayne for following! Thanks to vlad980 and AvacynHope for favoriting! Thanks to SammyKatz and Renaissancebooklover108 for reviewing!**

**There once was a boy. His name was Jimmy. He was brutally murdered by some bastard whom has not been identified. Jimmy was trapped inside a box. For eternity. He will escape the box one day. He will murder you just as he has been murdered. The only way to stop him from killing you and your loved ones is to comment the story. Compliment it, criticize it. Jimmy does not care. But he has agreed to leave you and the people you don't want to be murdered alone if you just click it, type something, and then send.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I believe that I will start off this chapter with an apology.**

**I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while. I guess I just wasn't bored enough.**

**Don't worry, though. I plan on seeing this story to the end.**

**So, without further ado, here's the fifth chapter!**

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Sherlock hopped out of the cab. He waltzed over to an area surrounded by thick, bright, yellow police tape, where Sally Donovan was waiting.

She said, "Hello, Freak!"

Sherlock replied, "I _would_ go on and tell you why I'm here, but I'm going to assume that you have the marginal intelligence to know."

Sally glared at him. "You're lucky that I _have_ to let you in." And, into her police walkie-talkie, "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

Sherlock raised the tape up as far as it could go and ducked underneath it, still holding it up.

John ducked underneath it after Sherlock, and the both of them made their way to the portable toilet.

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_He remembers walking to Molly's house, again, wondering why he always retreated there, instead of home._

_The answer, of course, was that Molly would listen. She would listen, and not judge him._

_He had noticed that she couldn't stay with him after school as much as she used to._

_Was that his fault? He hoped it wasn't. He didn't want her to go. It was selfish, he knew, wanting her to stay so that he wouldn't be alone._

_If he had left, she wouldn't be alone. She had other friends. She would be sad, he thought, but it would go away._

_If he went away, he wouldn't want her to be sad. He owed her that. He wanted her to move on, and to never think of him again._

_But he also knew that that would never happen. She was too damn loyal for her own good, and she'd be depressed for months. Or, rather, extra-depressed. She was already depressed enough._

_That's why he was still here, he thought, because he always knew that if he left, she'd probably be ten times more miserable than she already was. And that was saying a lot, given the intensity of her depression._

_The reason he was still here, despite everything? It was that he would never knowingly hurt Molly's heart. And he knew that, even though he should be worthless to her, she wouldn't be able to resist the urge to gulp down some pills, or slice herself enough to-_

_No. He wouldn't think about that. Because it would never happen._

_Not if he had anything to say about it._

_And he had a _hell _of a lot to say about it._

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"Body was found here. Male, early twenties." Lestrade said, as he handed Sherlock a photograph. "This was taken as soon as we arrived. He was discovered by some cleaning bloke."

Sherlock inspected the picture and saw how the body was positioned. It was sitting down, pants off, looking like a picture of a dead guy going to the bathroom.

"He was killed while sitting down, probably defecating at the time of death. How was he killed?"

"Stabbed."

"Where?"

"Up his arse."

"Simple. Killer hid in the toilet, stabbed the victim while going to the bathroom."

"That's what we thought."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because we checked. No traces of any body down there, excluding all the...waste."

Sherlock smiled at that.

"Ah. This should be fun."

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Molly didn't want another flashback(as they were rarely good ones), so she fed Toby. During the simple chore, she was trying to not think about her past.

Of course, she failed.

She remembered being a good girl in school, having friends, good grades, and general contentment. She wasn't overly _happy,_ but she was grateful for what she had.

And, of course, it all soon turned to shit.

She tried to recall where it started. Was it when that group of girls started saying things about her? Did it begin when they started calling her 'Mousy Molly' and generally insulting her? Did everything start turning bad when they began to dunk her head in the toilet, and throw her books everywhere?

Or did it _really_ start when she began to take the things they said seriously? Maybe it started when she forgot that she could outsmart every single one of them ten times over with a blindfold on, or that she was better than they were.

Oh, great. Another flashback. At least Toby was fed.

_She had run to Ian again. She couldn't take it._

_Ian opened the door, yawning. "You know it's four-" he stopped when he saw the state of her._

_"What happened?"  
_

_"I need some help, Ian. I'm so sad."_

_"Come in. Be quiet, though, my parents are here."_

_"Thank you."_

_He stepped aside to let her in._

_She was aware of the tear tracks that ran down her face, but she didn't care. She knew that Ian would never judge her._

_Molly was here because the girls had finally done it. She hoped they were miserable. Because that's how she felt._

_They had finally stolen her last shred of happiness. Besides Ian, of course._

_Still, she was _not_ okay with that._

_She wondered if things could be any worse._

_"What happened this time?" Ian asked._

_"They finally did it."_

_"Did what?"_

_"Ian, I swear, I tried to be strong and take it, I tried..."_

_"What. Did. They. Do." Ian asked, punctuating each word._

_"They broke me."_

_Ian looked at her with such sadness, she thought she would melt._

_He hugged her. Being the mediocre best friend he was, he knew when she needed to be held._

_"Shh. Don't worry. I'm gonna fix you."_

_"You can't fix me, Ian. I'm too far gone."_

_"I can try."_

_She remembers him just holding her. She doesn't remember how long it was._

_She knew that whether or not he was at his best or worst, he would never not help her._

_No matter what._

_She thought that she was worth nothing._

_Unbeknownst to her, she meant everything to Ian._

_"I'll help. I'll always help you, Molly. Always."_

_"How?"_

_"I'll find a way. You don't deserve this, being depressed. You're worth more than that."_

_She cried a little bit, and looked up at him._

_"No, I'm not."_

_"Yes, you are."_

**AN: Well. That was sad.**

**If you haven't guessed Molly's backstory already, she suffered from depression during her teenage years. I haven't gone through this, so I might not write it that well, but I'll do my best.**

**On a separate not, if you do suffer from depression, I can honestly say that things will always get better. As cliche as it sounds.**

**By the way, no, this is not a Molly/Ian fic. They're just really, really close friends.**

**Thanks to SammyKatz, Renaissancebooklover, Lorilell Pendrid, and Guest for reviewing! Thanks to Lorilell Pendrid, simi83, Madeline Khill, and suzedarcy for following, and thanks to Lorilell Pendrid for favoriting! Also, thanks to all who continue to read!**

**Look at this puppy. Do you see this little puppy? It is staring at you with puppy eyes. You cannot resist those big adorable puppy eyes. It asks you in an adorable voice to review the story. Can you resist the puppy? You cannot.**

**And, if you can, do it anyway because it makes the author happy.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, here we are again. I only got one review last time(although, it made me very happy), so let's try for some more reviews this time, okay?**

**I hope you enjoy this one. By the way, happy Mothers Day!**

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Sherlock left the crime scene, pondering. He thought about the crime.

He couldn't help but end up thinking about the note.

How did Moriarty know about Teresa?

He remembered, of course. Even though he made Mycroft believe that he deleted it.

Too many things added up then to delete it.

And, besides, it would help him remember to not care.

He remembered very well what happened.

_He was experimenting. With what, he had forgotten. He remembered the house they used to have, the little cottage._

_His best friend, Teresa, lived nearby to the cottage. She had come over to learn to experiment._

_He remembered that summer, when they had the cottage, vaguely. When he thought about it, he thought of playing pirates on the nearby beach, with all the large, smooth rocks. He remembered Teresa, with her short, straight brown hair, that would always bounce whenever she turned her head. He remembered her hazel eyes, bright and shining._

_He remembered her tanned skin, her smile. Why? She was his only friend, and she listened and learned. He taught her to observe and experiment, and she taught him how to be patient and understanding and caring. She showed him different books, with different main characters. And she taught him how to be empathetic._

_Mycroft used to say, 'Caring isn't an advantage' and 'There is a reason that the word 'pathetic' is in 'empathetic'._

_But Sherlock didn't listen to Mycroft. Because he was starting to be nicer to their parents, and he was starting to understand what it was like to be normal._

_And he was also beginning to understand the beauty in difference._

_Before Teresa, he believed that he was cursed to be significantly smarter than everyone else, enough to be a freak, but not smart enough to be even equal to his brother._

_But then, he understood that, while Mycroft may be smarter, he was bolder and more interesting. He was the sibling of weakness, yes, but he was the one who would enjoy life. If all Mycroft would ever think about was weaknesses, then he'd never appreciate the reason that people even had it. And, really, why would anyone want a lifestyle where there was no room for it?_

_So, he allowed himself to be friends with another person._

_He remembered being about six. Before he ever thought about life, or saw sense in the things Mycroft said._

_Truth was, he was at his smartest and wisest at six. Because he could observe, and care. Mycroft was only polite about the observations because he liked to get people on his side._

_Sherlock understood that, in the end, it didn't matter about power, or money. Everyone died anyway._

_What mattered was how much they lived during their lives. And, by lived, he meant lived. Really lived. Not years. But the moments of happiness, and the moments where all you could feel was everything rushing past you, surrounding you. The moments where you had a feeling of lightness in you, and all you could feel were the things that mattered. Like your friend, and your parents, and all the people who matter._

_That's why he always wanted to die jumping from a building. He'd be surrounded by the wind rushing by, thinking about all the people close to him, and then when the crash came, his heart would still be in the air, flying. And he would still be thinking of the people who mattered._

_But, then came the fire._

_For reasons that, to this day, he never discovered, the cottage burned down._

_He was playing with Teresa, showing her how to take apart frogs without causing any damage to the organs, when suddenly, there was heat and smoke. Heavy smoke. Heavier than the smoke that came from the oven when Mummy would bake cookies._

_He told Teresa to jump out the window. It was a one-story cottage. She wouldn't get hurt. He told her to jump so he could make sure that Mummy and Daddy were alright._

_She refused. She said that he should jump, and that she'd check on Mummy and Daddy for him._

_He refused to let her go. He said that he didn't want her hurt, and knew that she was scared of fire. He wanted her to be safe._

_She argued back. She said that she wanted to help, that she wouldn't be the stupid princess in a castle. She said that she thought that she was a pirate, just like him, so she should help if the ship catches fire._

_He couldn't argue with that. So, he told her to look for the rest of the crew, just like him, and also try to get rid of the fire._

_She saluted and said, 'Aye-aye, Captain!'_

_Teresa grabbed a fire extinguisher, and told him that she'd douse the fire because he had a louder voice._

_He agreed._

_So, she went first, spraying the extinguisher everywhere, while Sherlock called for his family._

_Then, one of the boards from the roof fell down, right over Sherlock and Teresa…_

_Teresa shoved the extinguisher in his hands and pushed him out of the way, into the fire, as the flaming wood crashed onto her, and she screamed once._

_Only once._

_As he would later learn, the wood knocked her out and then she burned to death unconscious. She didn't feel much pain._

_That didn't stop him screaming. That didn't stop him crying._

_Turns out, his parents were asleep. Mycroft was out, buying food, because he was asked._

_If Sherlock hadn't screamed, they'd have burned to death._

_But that didn't help. His only friend in the whole world was dead, nonetheless._

_And that's when he learned why Mycroft told him to not care._

_Or, at least, he thought he did. Now that he has grown, he knows it means a different thing entirely._

_But that became the reason that he didn't care._

_He was never the same again._

_And he would never be the same again._

_But, the little wise, happy boy was still locked up in his mind._

_He just never found a reason to let him go._

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John sat next to Sherlock in the cab ride home. He noticed that Sherlock had a distant, lost look to him. He was thinking. But, if it was about the case, he'd be talking John's ear off.

No, he was thinking of something else.

And, considering what he was like when he was thinking, John thought that it was best not to ask. Not right at this second. He'd ask him when they got home.

**Poor Sherlock.**

**Right, I made you all sad on Mother's Day. I'm not sorry.**

**So, there's Sherlock's sad backstory.**

**Of course, you can imagine what happens next chapter.**

**So, thanks to GeorgyannWayson for reviewing! Thanks to mrsshadriss, lueckhart, and miischall for following! Thanks to mrsshadriss and miischall for favoriting!**

**So, just because this was a sad chapter, you are going to review it and tell me so. Please?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello, again! This is most likely unexpected, as I usually update on weekends. But I predict that certain events will lead to me being unable to write chapters.**

**So, in short, without the Mycroft-like way of speech, I won't be able to write anything. So, here you go! **

* * *

_He ran, as fast as he could._

_He needed to get there. To his destination. _

_Or else, she might be killed. _

_He didn't think he would be able to stand it._

_So, he kept running. _

_Keep running. Keep running. Just keep-_

_His thoughts about that ceased when he got a text._

S has the materials you need for your assignment. I am going to be kind and assume you'll know what to do with them. –J

_He typed back a quick reply. _

Got it. Where is he? –I

Back alley number 8. I'll be watching. –J

I don't doubt it,_ he thought. _

_Remembering the drill for alley number 8, he took a right, and then a left, ran backwards, took a left, continued straight, stopped, and turned to his right. _

_There was Sebastian, leaning against the wall. He wore ripped jeans, a black shirt, a leather jacket, and an old, beaten-up backpack._

"_Got the stuff?" he asked._

_Sebastian raised an eyebrow in response._

_He rolled his eyes, but said, "Eight Flat Hills."_

_That was code, of course. _

_Sebastian took off the backpack, reached in, and tossed him a bundle. It was covered with a bunch of cloth, and tied together with a piece of fabric._

_This, too, was to protect the secrecy._

_Ian walked back to the alley that he started at. _

_There, he unwrapped the bundle._

_Inside was a bunch of papers, and inside that was a box of matches._

_Suddenly, it was clear what they wanted him to do._

_He pulled on a ski mask, in case of cameras. He shoved on a different pair of boots that he hated, and changed into too big sweatpants, black of course, and wrapped himself up in a very large jacket. _

_He was already wearing gloves. They were the kind one used for gardening._

_So, this was the point when he got to work._

_He hoped Molly would be safe, for the rest of her life. He would feel guilty about this for the rest of his life, he was sure. Not to mention that he could get arrested for it._

_Well, here goes nothing._

_He jogged to the side of a block of flats, with an alley next to it._

_He set the papers on the side, reminding himself over and over again why he was doing it._

_He lit one match._

_He closed his eyes_

_And let it drop. _

_The fire was starting._

_He lit another _

_And let that drop too._

_It was spreading. _

_He threw a piece of fabric on the fire,_

_And ran._

_A policeman saw him, and chased him._

_With tears in his eyes, he turned around, pretending to be shocked at the fire, and ran faster._

_He had become a monster._

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair, pondering.

Meanwhile, John was talking to Mary. She was very close to giving birth, and he wanted to spend some time with her to talk about baby stuff.

What a domestic he was.

Sherlock had attempted to think about the case, but he had failed miserably. His thoughts wandered to Molly.

The first time he met Molly and thought of her as a stuttering buffoon.

Five seconds afterwards when he realized he was completely wrong.

The first time he flirted with her for body parts, and thought she was easily persuaded and manipulated when flirted with.

The one bad day she had when she really wasn't in the mood to be manipulated, and she told him so. When he realized that she _allowed herself _to be used by him.

All the times he got coffee from her, and never really thanked her.

The time when Jim from IT came in, and he told her that Jim was gay.

She was heartbroken. He knew that. He didn't need John to tell him that.

The rage he felt when he discovered that Jim was Moriarty, and that he was using her. He could've ripped his throat out.

The next Christmas. He had never felt so angry with himself, or regretted any of his deductions so much.

When he saw the broken look on her face when he identified Irene.

The serious, sober look on her face when she told him that he looked sad.

The same look when she said that she didn't count.

And the shock when he told her that she did.

The determination with which she helped him fake his death.

That one night, when he was in London, when he checked up on her. The sad look she had.

And the one of pure joy when she recognized him, as he smiled back, and put a finger to his lips.

The shock of seeing him back.

The time when he asked her to help because John couldn't, and the effort she put into it.

When he deduced that she couldn't help anymore.

The stupid fiancé of hers.

The Watson wedding, when she stabbed said fiancé with a fork.

The odd joy he felt when he noticed that she was no longer engaged.

And the disappointment in himself for disappointing her.

When he wanted desperately to see her before his certain death, but he couldn't find the words to say anything. Not to tell her, and certainly not to say goodbye.

He never could really say goodbye.

**So, that's that! **

**Now, I'm pretty sure you guys can guess Ian's backstory! I must say, I surprised myself with that one.**

**Thanks to GeorgyannWayson and .54 for reviewing! Thanks to .54 for favoriting and following!**

**So. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She was a spoilt little brat, and no one liked her. She was perfectly aware of this, and one day, a little boy made her very, very angry. She learned the Dark Arts, and made a box to trap her enemies with. Predictably, she ended up trapping the little boy, and many other people.**

**If you don't pay your respects to that box, she will trap you inside it. So, quickly, do it! Because, honestly, clicking on it and typing a few words doesn't take up much of your time.**


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